Vocal Cords of Alyssa Milano

"This reverend brother has been all his life engaged in fighting among the Saracens for the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre; he is of the order of Knights Templars--" Sir Walter Scott, one of the first to utilize the innovation of life insurance.

I spent the evening desperately looking to make a digital pitch, failed in the effort, but resolved to hit Harper’s later this week with a traditional mailing despite living conditions to the tune of a dilapidated bunker. I misplaced my hardcopy file in this melee of public housing and destitution, but misplaced it on my own, despite my father’s ineffectual convergence with minority fatalism and Mainline Medical’s deplorable product fitting, I had the file, pulling out my accomplishments, still making an effort to get Negro medical management to see me as human, barking them down to fleeing from me in terror, but didn’t place said file back into place. It is a strange power to have, this spark of hatred in my eyes so ready and willing to die in the name of an insurgency I cannot even define, as every sort of organizing principle has governance behind it, whatever equitable distribution we believe in or not. Tanz Industries and Darius might have saved civilization on a thumbnail, (not the only one disgruntled with the CBS cancelation) but the Variety piece tells us nothing except ratings. No sourcing, just a straight news item, no names, no tug of war between the show’s producers and the executives at the Central Broadcasting System who made the cut. Salvation was a damn good series for what it was, utilizing real propulsion theory and applied engineering, so that even libertarians can hate corporate sometimes, and certainly do. We all hate rental agents within varying degrees, and make no mistake that section 202 owners are engaged in the business of gerontology, but it is not a market based contracture. It is a taxpayer subsidy for a broad range of spectrum disorders in the elderly 62 and above, and I rolled into it as a 31 year old career professional. Now look at me, luckily so caged, so free to leave. I can roll out on this fraternal Presbyterian dictatorship anytime I please, after years of subjugated terror. Threatening the governor of Pennsylvania means next to nothing to me in this context. I mean that literally, despite the fact that Wolf and Ridge and the ailing Rendell are status quo establishment politicians we all used to favor. Put Wolf, the executive, and Toomey, the stalwart Irishman, in the same room, and what do you have? Both are pro-business, one doesn’t like the Social Security dispensary on the backs of American workers, the other is never going to say that Medicaid is merely a transposition for the descendants of slaves. Both would condescend to me, “now now spastic, homicide is not a legitimate political outcome.” But that’s only a veneer, and all a care giver has to do is have a bad day, leave me lying on the single foam mattress, move the power chair away. It would be interesting to discover if I still had the collegiate strength to get up off the floor, to conquer bad wheelchair technology.

Decline and Fall

"Christianity is a sickness."-- my paraprofessional

That I am actually reading Gibbon in tandem with Niall Ferguson's now familiar analogy and rhythm is a coincidence, and that he does touch on healthcare as a staggering edifice of a troubled welfare system is certainly not attributable to me. I worry more, in fact, that pitching to Vanity Fair is a nearly insurmountable task for a non-staffer, as opposed to the bon professor's ready access. I'd have to send a resume to Comnsate Publications, last time I researched the issue. I have to work my way back in on a smaller scale. My bowel is hurting, the adult diapers, as I knew they would years ago, are destroying my buttock epidermis, and I'm having tremors. I was warned about all of this, only now collapsing at 56 plus a testament to thick Italian skulls, well back into the past, and I cannot delude myself that I'm redeemable as a woman with cerebral palsy who refused to apply to Harvard on the fear of social stigma. I'm dying, and I'm dying of nothing but the poverty of technical medical disaster, and I die unrepentant, unable to tweet a compliment to Pat Toomey without getting inexplicably attacked by this account. I did not have to respond to Memes, and it was undoubtedly worth my while not to do so, but I am in pain, and Memes, like a social media jackass, tells me I am privileged because I contacted Pat Toomey about illegal collusion at Philadelphia's farcical disability center. I have no idea what Memes wants from me, and consider his, or her, conduct, no more than harassment. I am not special to Toomey, or his staff, I just agree with him after facing a lifetime of antipodal destruction under Philadelphia Housing authority auspices, and stand by my tweet, which I shall not embed, that Toomey is righteous. Others are free to make their own decisions. I only repent the precipitous decline in my health because single payer option rationing is its proximate cause, and I do not blame the GOP. I worried, briefly, that I'd really destroy my mental welfare by developing a bond with the male paraprofessional on whom I now depend, but then I realize he says uneducated and outlandish conspiratorial sentiments, and it will not happen, hopefully. I have heard such stories of racial remorse conscientiousness before, and I cannot. Because I still harbor that unpleasant internal condensation. He and I "friended" each other, so this evening, I will not push the envelope any further, nonetheless, we're both single, lonely, and if he is going to nurse me for an indefinite period, men are men, women are women, and I need be cautious, or find him better economic security, and return to antagonistic tensions with predominately minority women. This has no correlation to my defense of Niall Ferguson against Pankaj Mishra's charges of neo-imperialism, not at first glance, but throughout history, state welfare systems erode the vibrancy of civilization. I crushed myself with high expectations. Gibbon, as you may or may not know, worked in episodic poverty, and suffered from scoliosis, but he was an important transitional historian, a bridge between hagiography of the Enlightenment, and evidence based means testing and aggregate data of the modern discipline which Niall engages with astute methodology, and his critics miss his main points about authority, central state systems, and the evolution of modern economy and financial innovation. I would not deign to call Niall righteous. It is not the right descriptive for an accessible scholar and analyst, but he's a realist who recognizes boundary markers, concedes progressive victories against differences oppressed by social caste, and his critics are simply off base. He taught me about the evolution of money in a manner I was never challenged to consider, and if that isn't a scholar doing his job, pray tell, what is?

The Consequence of Bad Grooming Result in Hair Chaos

“We've got a 40-year-old allegation that is unprovable, probably,” Toomey said.

I have not weighed in on the Roy Moore candidacy, and don’t particularly care to, as I know nothing of the man in his own voice, and I am not into the MAGA fetish. I voted for Donald, but it was a vote cast on the basis of reaction against the Clintons, perhaps due to hilarity as well. I looked for ways to defend him, initially, and take responsibility for that, in my annoyance with Wapo, but as my survival has come up against a landslide of falling rocks annulling me into paralysis, I have become disaffected, not that my circumstances are the GOP’s fault. But I weary of this fake news tabloid mindset of the president, to echo Ed Rogers, and think the administration has been in place long enough now to sober up and execute, as my subversive amusement wans, and my defiance has to pit itself against diaper rash. Moore's rise in the spotlight, though he is well known in his state, is perhaps attributable to the cultural backlash I warned against when I gave my readers, incredulous or confused as they might be, personal details about the gay and lesbian predominance in groups like ADAPT and Not Dead Yet.

In point of fact, to summon up my antagonist, once again, I only saw Jimmi Shrode earlier this year, near to the onset of autumn, and he did not seem well. The cuddly ugly queen phase, when he would wear green eyeshadow and black nail polish, seems to have been discarded. He was walking with a pronounced limp, a cane, thinned out, as if he was evading belligerents such as I have been, and I wondered if he had been in an altercation, despite the fact I’ve long been out of orbit. Roy Moore’s extremism when it comes to homosexuals may seem commensurate with the dowager’s darker inclinations, but his collective condemnation is against the whole: my personal experiences have taught me that toleration is a double-edged sword.

I have read the media alarmists who feel the man’s doctrinal fidelity is an indicator of mental affect, to put it mildly.  Senator Toomey has expressed sympathy with those who allege molestation, and feels Moore should have stepped down, a position which has probably aligned him with Casey in a bipartisan gesture toward comity, but blood in the water is manifest in a myriad of casualties. I never imagined Lizza would be among them, not that I can recollect what his contributions were under Marty that earned my respect. We need to put the brakes on this misconduct hysteria, and I say that as someone irrevocably damaged. I am heartened that Lizza is saying wait a minute. If he had a prior consensual relationship, there may be a red herring in these polluted currents.

I have followers who may be considered devout, but Roy is less rational conservative, more literalist. These fissures in the body politic have come and gone before with the Christian Coalition, but this controversy is inopportune, again, distracting us from functioning.

Speed of light

See how fast I am moving? I put Septa in my phone, despite the fact it would be easier to take wheelchair taxi. Victims learn the hard way about the difference between rule of law and justice, and I know I am never going to get a lawyer to care about the fact that Terri Way, once my contemporary equal, talked me out of a lawsuit against Presby, but I am unreasonable, menacing, in exact proportion to cause I have against this religious based socialist plague on the body politic. The rise of the feminine collective easily enough besmirches male stature, whether it's Cosby or Harvey Weinstein, but the spokes barely turn for me, a nine year old girl vaginally penetrated by two African Americans in a home for children, medically brutalized thereafter, pursued sexually by her mother's addicts, an aggravated assault victim under the management of Presby, and Presby's answer is to threaten me with regimentation, and disability activism, whatever its former shielding, has swept me aside, because abuses continued with paraprofessionals, and I no longer want to play, no, under rule of law, Trudy Richardson can terrorize, browbeat, accentuate my anxiety at whim. Marie, my long time dying aunt, says I have to do it myself. Find a new habitat, persuade the oversaturated legal market to help me on my own, although I know all about impatient law firm brutality in the name of billing hours, though Silver & Silver was polite, and that, I appreciate. You're not living here at Riverside.
I am not going to go back and forth with you. 
Lahnisha call the police.
We're done.

This is ten years of a nigger nanny battering ram. Ten years, except it's never done, because the Commonwealth, you, everyone, wants Medicare care money by methodically torturing me into my grave. Cousin Richard may be annoyed with me for saying this, but neither he nor Billy would subject their mother, Marie, to what I've had to endure, simply to survive, and no one will, or can, lift a finger. Toomey wouldn't dare reexamine section 202 abuses, and liberals, hell, this is fascist heaven. Wonderful humanity.

Cardiac Trauma in Folie Et deux

I have, as yet, bunkered down, and even giving my notice to Riverside hasn’t stopped the merry carnival at my expense, though I, in ailing fashion, continue to beat back authority: I have no track marks, no weapons cache, yet the march of the indomitable Commonwealth continues, as I am no longer a person worthy of encouragement, only a mortal quantity whose grave is being dug by a corrupt system embedding poverty to keep the civil service afloat. If I am a self-righteous prig going down in defiance, Winter’s Bone (2010) is one of those rare films muting industry stock reel conventions to embody the Ozarks regional sensibilities in its own competition with the characters Debra Granik unapologetically plants onto the camera lens, in a real embodiment of what makes American resilience so particular unto itself, a resilience gradually being lost to European state models. Tim Dillahunt is the only recognizable sit com star Granik uses for bankability, as the fleeced straight arrow sheriff, and this may be excused, being offered as comfortable terrain. Does he fit as the conscientious humanitarian with the force of authority to consider? Every community not truly broken has figures like him. Best groomed, resisted or embraced, or met half way, and this community may not have the Obama era dynamic of Hawaii, nor is it quite dead-alive. It is stark, no nonsense, willing to be honest about the greater strength, and what tenacity achieves. What I liked, in particular, was how Ree’s uncle came alive toward the climax, with that sharp, pensive face. We’re left with an implied sentiment that he goes off to avenge his brother’s murder; given what Ree has already peeled away with her own tenacity, we may interpret her uncle as a doomed warrior, risking death for honor. If I might have become a screen writer (a bit late for that now, with the lampoon of the million dollar slush pile in LA) accomplishing narratives such as Granik does here, this would have given me pride in an equal compliment.

Normally, when I am quiet, my twitter stock rises before the invariable drop. The only mechanism I know to handle the mind breaking stress I inflicted on myself, in lieu of attempted homicide, is to tunnel inward and become monolithic, which is what I have done. It would be a lot easier if I had a best friend, one who would not leave me at Pennsylvania’s mercy, but I have no one like that, and my small accrual of followers fades away. I honestly don’t have the luxury to sit and worry about it, trying to ween myself from the addictive strength of automated psyche penetration. Not for the time being. I am not entirely positive Presbyterian Homes will receive a last rental check from me. What would Toomey tell me, as the revamped Irish conservator, if I had access to him directly? What would he think, that the invalid is lucky niggerland hasn’t caved her skull in already?

Great Expectations

we're gonna keep comin at ya

I cannot write a post long enough to explain with what frequency case managers intertwined themselves in my life, whether vocationally, or mental health issues due to my mother, or in institutional rehabilitation, but Presbyterian Homes, from the time I moved into Riverside in 1994, virtually invented same sex marriage in relation to the frequency with which their managers and social workers disavowed my right to privacy, and I do not mean solely the current team. Debra Horne is, for lack of any other way to phrase it, a sad testament to the human condition when individuals with low IQ interbreed, and this is exactly why Presby hired her. Intimidating, high tan, Mississippi accent like bile in her throat I think she came here in a jean jumper in 05. Black. Bull. Dyke, just ahead of her tenants to wield her invisible baton. I did not know what I was setting myself up for with this shuffling minority matron, her hernia, lesbianistic overtones, nearly amalgam of the orderlies who abused me under Dr. Chance. After what I have been through in North Philadelphia, I carry no guilt about despising her, don't care a jot if mother's family is appalled, and this woman's cruel arrogance is a living rebuttal to whatever Jeffrey's treatise is on the right's collectivism. Minorities can be as morally corrosive as anyone else, and it used to be Debra I wanted to have punished, but that has since been upgraded. Debra's immediate superior has committed a criminal offense, and I'll see Trudy Richardson on the other side of a civil suit, or force Philadelphia's finest to mortally injure me, and one of you shall give my lifelong melancholy turned rogue a fine eulogy, I am sure. Mettle, spirit, and all that, even if there aren't people quite suited to human existence, people we'd be better off without.


But in 1986, I tried hard to be a good compliant tenant, nearly slept with the son of a reverend, and discovered identity politics, a righteous cause, in Jonathan Capehart's voice, to be nothing more than moral poison. I have always more or less enveloped myself in despondency. Some quadriplegics do better, some worse, and my intelligence, applied to my pain, makes me an existential threat-- my Senator's tolerance doesn't want to peer too deeply into my militancy which applauds him most of the time, and I'd stop Casey junior cold, not having anything to lose in the darkness of the unsaid, only made worse because, I know, intrinsically, my hourglass doesn't have too much quality sand left before the upper chamber metes out my allotment. Look at all this has taken out of me, the economics of appeasing "a fraternal contractor," who your taxes subsidizes to intentionally break *us* down. Some bloody system. I spent my savings cleaning this apartment. Not all of it, but a great deal went into Tim's pocket, or a cleaning service, then Karina. Now it has evaporated, and I have since been under constant threat because I don't want to be whored off again under welfare's sterling subcontractors. I've yet to hear any libertarian stampede, however, to run my vacuum, throw in a load of laundry. They've all got hard ons for block chain code.

Name Your Assailant

I have little idea why my brother took me off his Facebook account, as in, here we go, again, but I know, in part, he is insecure about the usual family stuff, to paraphrase Ice Tea, about having been born a bastard, and I was also, for me, mildly subversive about maternal aggrandizement on Gretchen's posts: I am not particularly enthralled that my eldest nephew also sprang a leak and had an unplanned pregnancy; nor am I best friends with my sister in law. I am not even certain that the social media giant has been particularly conducive. I got kicked off a Dubai based fuckwit's freelance group without even trying, left another voluntarily. What use is all of this to me? It is a tool, like Twitter, but for me, two tools which do the same thing where the larger is counterproductive isn't necessarily beneficial. In the strange ways of virtual communication, I used a hard nosed analyst's well deserved jab at Manning to talk myself down. 

Let me return to Tom Earle. He had no idea what the internal politics of the disability center were like under Fern Markowitz and Linda Dezenski, and I'm not in the mood to keep reiterating what was going on. If you take LBGT extremists and put them in a room, Jewish princess addendum or not, chaos is the end result. I told you before, these individuals had little love lost between them, and the homosexuals replaced Fern, one of their own, with a soft, blind Latino who delights in toddlers. I realize he was beholden to the board who put him in place. I embarrassed him with a toxic issue which in essence, destroyed my support system, and I'm culpable. I did not do what most women do in these situations and legal up until years later, I stopped caring, went through another homosexual politician, broke down, emailed Toomey, and then the axis shifted. Toomey's doing? I do not know, but support the Senator, nonetheless, and went through this again with Josie on a lesser scale in her little isle at United Spinal Association, all of this within recurring Pennsylvania welfare abuses and rental agent contiguous, and I stress, contiguous, harassment, until I proclaimed myself a racist, fought like one, and damaged quadriplegic remains in a stalemate with authority. Tom, however, did not have to leave the streamers flutter in the vent. He could have investigated, dismissed Linda then, and as a decent man, offered me something, like a fucking transfer. This is why I am angry with him. He's a fucking civil rights attorney, but never mind. Burrow, then threaten me. This is how Nancy Pelosi's "rule of law" works for those who cannot buy tort and didn't meet the deadlines due to the extent of the pain, and I just cannot dig myself out. Maybe, just maybe, I'll find a housing lawyer, but it's a little late for me to recover. I am, after all, one mortal against a cruel institutional paradigm, still attempting to encompass opera, not quite managing, except for Verdi. La Traviata, upon discovery, has an effervescent quality nearly impossible to capture, and Violetta, with the right soprano, is enough to cling to, now and again, were it only I who might have been pursued with passion for who I was, consumption might have freely enveloped me in its inflammatory excretions. This gives concessions to Dumas in his masculine anxiety. So be it.

Applicable Meaning

"After nearly sixteen years since 9/11, Americans are weary of war without victory." --Donald Trump, dissembling in chief

One of my list files on twitter, which the administrators briefly interfered with, until they were assured the dowager wasn't going to engage in mortal combat with Ciccariello-Maher, a visiting professor at Drexel who should be stripped of his doctorate, not for his speech but for foolhardiness, is Adversaries, and a former NASA astronaut like Mark Kelly doesn't quite belong there, in a queasy tinge, but I am not quite sure what to do with him. If I had an equivalent political partner who was shot in the head, one who will spend the rest of her life in special needs, I too might develop mission fervor with a political action committee. One thing both NRA loyalists and libertarians should acknowledge is that guns are dangerous, as do other mortals, including Senator Toomey, and I appreciate his courage to stand with the Sandy Hook families, as no right is inalienable. I am not even sure I believe in human rights, but that contention is too broad, at least for this morning. It is equally true that I have distaste for Kelly's Responsible Solutions PAC, and blocked them. The rhetoric is holier than thou, and no one has a perfect pitch on perspective. Ciccariello-Maher survived his senseless provocation-- and yes, his tweets backfired because all they did was arouse, and that doesn't help. I might not either, but at least I have my context, and rather serious grievances behind that context, but I am not sure what makes Maher's raconteur tendencies any different than Durden's. I tweeted, and stand by, the sense that Carlson was slightly too self-righteous. Bigoted as I may be, I live in a black city, and being black in Philadelphia, in 3 out of 4 instances, translates into agrarian limitations obvious to anyone in the professional class. Let me state, emphatically, that I am not Durden's ally, and she isn't about to sympathize with my excoriating attacks on black arrogance. I'm posting, merely, that she paid a heavy price for that interview, which was really nothing more than her advocacy for blacks speaking for themselves. The disabled do this all the time. No one calls savants racists for self-congregating. It isn't like she was advocating a black militia movement.

Storey's tweets, on the other hand, were indicative of something else. Between the lines, he was weary of teaching, and shot his barbs into a real time event which has caused loss of life, and he might have held back, written a satirical opinion. The Republican Party isn't a monster simply because of Trump's alt.right revolt, and as Phillips source says, people don't do things like that, in the middle of a tragedy, in real time feed. Yet Palin's case against the Times was dismissed. I have not studied this. I don't have the time to back track every factual point, read the briefs, but from what established media has presented, in its examination, persuaded me Governor Palin had a case. I agreed with Wemple that there may have been an actual malice standard. Rakoff's ruling catches me by surprise.

Early on between 10 and 12, I voiced some criticism of Palin on twitter. The Atlantic's profile of her governorship spiraled into a damaged show horse nominee the media virtually pillaged, perhaps deservedly. Recently, I swung my battleship, and I'm following her, probably going to write a post, send it to her site, or a contact submittal, and see what happens. Maybe nothing, but Palin's sensibility as an independent wife and mother resonate more sympathetically, after my tribulations. My point, however, is, the First Amendment is, in essence, meaningless, at least, if we examine these examples.

Reenactment Auxiliary

In case of the removal of the President from office or of his death or resignation, the Vice President shall become President., 25th amendment, sec.1

Running the air a little in the heat of the day before I go to lie down, daring, when I do, to shut the air conditioning off, in sooty urban ninety degree weather, little changed since oh, let's say, 1918, before the technology of Freon was widely available so that toady peasants could live past sixty. I've heard twice now that "hate", whether as an entity, a thing, which only exists as an advanced internal motivation in primates, or a modal verb, is a strong word. The ambulatory world uses it as a moral teaching tool, like in Kung Fu, David Carradine went up against an old monk controlling the warrior who appeared to have superhuman strength, until Caine journeyed to the monk's residence, and the Shaolin broke the corroded man's will through focused meditation, and viewers then saw little more than emaciated bark and dust, the supporting actor impossibly shriveled.

 It isn't quite so allegorical in real world terms, when the tsunami strikes with as much steady consistency as it does with surge and currents. For developmental damage, it is simply part and parcel of our vocabulary, not extraordinary in the least. If we had extraordinary, we'd be running the Phineas Priests better than they run themselves. Richard Spencer, in his carefully plotted alt.right facade, his pretense toward being a reasonable think tank, probably knows quite a few of these anarchists a la mode, in their conflicted ballet with local and federal law enforcement. I write this in speculation only, and do not claim his ethno romantic views on white privilege serve as a front for domestic paramilitary enthusiasts. They can believe anything they please, except when it comes to insurrection. Authority looks askance at sedition against a purportedly constitutional republic, one thing it shares with otherwise discredited regimes where governance is a wink and a nod. They only way extremism ever comes out victorious is in numbers, sympathizers, converts. This is one way the status quo moves. Innovation is another, like the technology surrounding television. We very rarely dwell on how complex the components of video are. We grasp the basic concepts of how electricity is harnessed, controlled, but our numbers are fewer in the expertise of audio, or radio waves, satellite technology. Count me in as useless when it comes to these applications, how magnetism carries voice, how antenna captures signals, how transistors convert this so that pixels can create exactly what cameras film. Control these mediums and then you control the dissemination of the facts to be distorted in one variation or another, but how to lust for power and keep it in the dynastic sense is increasingly difficult to do, despite Chancellor Merkel, and it cannot be done by terrorizing Spokane with pipe bombs and strategic bank heists. Take Silicon Valley and its oligarchy: Tim Cook, Peter Thiel, Chris Hughes in New York, Zuckerberg, Jack, even Ev Williams, and their enablers. They may not all share the characteristics of a regressive, if occasionally patriarchal, homosexuality, but they all have, to some degree, a coastal, dandyish elitism-- even Thiel, who seems, at least superficially, to be a boy he-man who doesn't grow up, but we've been co-opted by them, augmenting, as they have, the Defense Department technology which is now the digital age, and whether intentional or not, unless the Internet is destroyed, (unlikely), freedom is dead.
This may seem like I give the saying nothing environment of social media too much importance. Toomey, to pick a conventional establishment example, doesn't live on it. He is a legislator, a man of great privilege, juxtaposed against the hordes, but nothing, and no one is free, in this age of computer science, cameras, facial recognition software, quarantines Apple, Google, and their heirs knowing everything. Minority Report  will seem like a piss in the bucket, compared to where we're headed. Along the way, hate will flare, and for those whom justice has never lifted a finger, it's comprehensible. Libertarians may see the dowager's hostility to homosexual culture as a violation of liberty and privacy. On one level, it is. But what political aspirants like Austin Petersen do not see in their paramount individualism, is, gay men and lesbians generate victims too, as did my mother's once best friend, even in the closet. Kmac's eventual happiness with one of her husband's relatives had repercussions, and created estrangements. Don't Semitic moralists also have the right to believe sexual sodomy is sinful, as well? Liberty for all is not quite the utilitarian striving that it seems, in this context. Not that I am forsaking libertarian beliefs. They've helped me a good deal, but freedom is exceedingly fragile against a collective which automation has made so banal it's difficult to see how aesthetic transcendence will find space to flourish in future world.

Junk Food Gas

We have no housing suggestions at this time.--Toomey's regional offices

I was a little more unkind to Jayne Anne's legacy than I had intended to be here, was mildly surprised Niume allowed me the ventilation, and shall perhaps make up for it at a later date. I cannot remember much about Fast Lanes or Black Tickets, and have yet to restart the earlier vignettes which earned the studiously silent professor her acclaim; no, I am not pouting that she will not respond to me; I simply thought emailing her would be the fastest method to get a copy of my poem back. I may even no longer have a draft, and murderous contempt for vacant Christian idiots doesn't solve the problem, does it now?

I know the alt.right doesn't give a fig leaf for my liberal brown nosing, blow upon blow. The state GOP, Toomey. They seek my loyalty, my monetary support, and if I have committed nearly irrevocable acts against black monolithic bull dykes, as long as the lava vein doesn't lead to property damage, who cares? So why have I switched sides? Because Toomey would have evicted me by now; there may have been some humiliation involved, but not this slithering nigger poison on its daily saline drip, and I like straight forward talk, think the man got the CIL to declaw my supervisor. The most cognizant rationale I've read about McConnell's breach of Beltway decorum, allowing the Garland nomination to expire, was that the party wanted to keep Scalia's seat solidly conservative: I've enough independence of mind left to be critical of "unicarmelizing" the federal legislature. It only gives libertarians more fuel, as we all grow more suspicious.


Sure, Obama disillusioned me, and his policies did jack to help me, as quads are always dismissed, third class humans, at best, if we require too much mending, but he was still the president. Trump wants the same respect, and in that light, Garland should have had a hearing. Gorsuch gets in, yes, but after I am dead, does Scotus become a dog and pony show off Broadway? If I can be nearing 55-- just barely, and be cynically disgusted, it is quite an erosion. Mr. Delvechio's history student, 36 years ago, was a patriot. She believed in her country. Philadelphia, as a chronic condition, destroyed that by the time the broken half-wit from the Bronx proposed to me. I think I was 42, thinking I'd stay well built for a while. Now I am ejecting myself from the inglorious projects which consumed health, virility. We'll see if JFK security shoos me off, like a mad woman, if I present myself to the Senator's staff, in the interim.

Hostile Take Over, Anathema

Of course there should always be the possibility for another war-- my cynical rebuttal of Prime Minister Abe's grandiloquence

I really have things to do before the housing authority's mandatory paradigm heats up once more after January first, and thus, did not want to take the time for a first draft rant (I actually do have more thematic complications turning the gears behind my cranium), but Yahoo has hurt me with its new security measures. Extraditing myself from a mail account I've had for years, as my twitter inactive brother suggests, is not going to be a game of barefoot in the park sentimentality, and I'm genuinely angry. Though one can imagine an old portal site like Yahoo has a high turn over rate, similar to the revolving door for public housing managers, journalists beneath the top tier, spastic has had a long, addictive, aggressive-triggered relationship to the portal. Now it is serious. Their security changes are interfering with my personal life, and I am wondering if I should talk to a lawyer. Yes, I can export and then deactivate, but I always end up losing receipts and other items I need to keep. A more interesting question is, invoking the raider ICahn, made rich by his consumption, why do we continue to allow Yahoo to limp along on life support? Carrie Fisher's body, if not her psyche, at least, had the temerity to make her exodus at an appropriate time. 
Yahoo we disparage withe an undercurrent of affection, as if the company incorporated itself using Snoopy as a beta stud. Yes, I am concerned with my vulnerability, and its trip wire quality. It isn't as if I haven't known episodic crisis's, and hurling headlong into the next, but I legitimately want some freedom before a form of dementia sets in. I have not turned to a libertarian wardrobe simply to arouse, amuse. My experiences with the welfare state are argument enough against it. Traditional conservatives like Pat Toomey and Paul Ryan can't really look at my struggle with matriculation and be forthright about it, that my exploitation made the careers of quacks and surgeons with a god complex, but I've done my time. The poverty re-enveloping me now is worse than when Liberty initially inducted, then kept me at arms' length after I hit eject. The sheer enormity of what is now economically almost impossible for me to achieve overwhelms me. I shut it down, so as to get off the mattress at all, but when I lose all ability to control my own limitations, it will put undue limitations on my sister, Little Ben, and my brother's a grandfather. Me? I have the compassion of a brave ditz I hired from Craigslist. Once independent living exculpates you, supervisors and their Jeffrey Dahmer jokes aside, replacing that familial relation is unduly difficult.

Essence of a Pornographic Interlude

I've always been something of a political animal in my work, and surmise now that this should have led me towards a journalistic concentration earlier than it did, but this was the fault of my iconic sensual needs focusing on instructors, culminating in my cleaving to rock star professor, which Jerry would have had directed elsewhere for a considerable sum. It isn't just that I nearly hate the old man now for hormonal intellectual overkill for which I was at fault. He warned me more than once, and I rankle over that as well, that he was astute enough to read my future anguish in the making. We'll never see each other again, he and I, but if we did, even if our aging appearance shocked each other, I'd have to struggle with a violent impulse to rage at him furiously, then to fall at his feet in florid pink stricken grief. He and John Tassoni, I have to admit, have the ability to trigger me to that level of provocation.

I've fought it all my life, and in biological dissolution that intensity may lift to expose my vanquished identity, the ultimate facade, as it were, but there it is. Conversely, if McGuire had slept with me, he would have been diminished, perhaps even relegated to stepfather pond scum. This relates to picking up my battlements and returning to pitching. My failure with Jeffrey Tucker's baby led to a small retreat: I did not procrastinate. I researched, and I still fell splat on my face, motivated but bit by digression, unwittingly arguing with Niall. If I had communicated this problem to Jeffrey beforehand I'm not sure my topic could have been saved, but I'm still sulking. I know I've been better than that, but my confidence took a hit; perhaps I'll never recalibrate.

I've picked myself up, but cannot fail the next time I get a green light, emerging, but busying myself with literary journal culture which I now find wearisome. Liberals think I'm still with the left when they access my creative output. Hardliners like Toomey mistrust me, and Tony's CFO jumped ship after telling me what a great humanist his boss is, but I do not take Murphy's bailout personally. On the commercial level, I am one of Puzo's soldiers, who will die for her Don, and most women of child rearing age rightly see this as a threat to domestic tranquility. In the right conditions, going down like a good soldier fulfills me because I couldn't find the thunder in the other to live for, and told Erik's passive caretaker, during Indian summer, that I'd break her transsexual's neck, after giving Erik the finger. His nanny was terribly pained; I have not seen Erik or Jimmi or their servile lout Chris since, more overjoyed than remorseful. Resolved to enter a poetry contest at the last minute even though I cannot afford it, then I have to get back on the circuit, and fight to rematriculate. I was not engaging in hyperbole when I tweeted to the President Elect I wanted an appointment to the National Council on Disability. Some of you get payback.

Let me add one thing about Tony Stiles. He may or may not understand me, and he and I may not always agree with each other, but my loyalty to the man is unswerving, because he found me and linked to me of his own accord. I prefer radio as my medium, and need a new system, and then would love to hear his show, promote him when he's right. That is as close as I get to fundamental ideology.

And if I'm having bodily wound sex with Ken Wahl in my head, to resurrect my full throttle, as long as it doesn't take water in the bow, hey.

Chiaroscuro, della Scalizo

Of the twenty children Brown fathered, nine died before the age of ten, among them a baby girl accidentally scalded to death by an elder sister.--Tony Horwitz, Midnight Rising, loc. 143

How many times have I written here not to telephone dying aunts, particularly when I am under so much strain of my own accord? Waiting on a small line of credit which shouldn't have been approved, even if we all know that game; told myself not to dial her number, but my father doesn't quite fill me in on medical gossip events, so I dialed, and the rate at which she and I disconnect from each other is a form of compensation toward not hurling expletives at each other; things which cannot be unsaid. I "slipped" in relation to my demented uncle's mortality, and that was enough, as it usually is. My knowledge that my cousin's mother is on the fringe, being closed by concentric bands on functionality, isn't the crux of the problem.

I have no social extensions to keep me on the ground, with my yellowed and crooked underbite, my weary and mortally wounded eyes-- even when I am safe on supplies, the damage can be read in my eyes like a marriage between Henry Lee Lucas and the Kama Sutra. I have tried to provide myself outlets. The Rosenbach, as I knew beforehand, wasn't the appropriate venue. Liberty On the Rocks members -- with the exception of Zach Tollen-- he a product of the consumer model, tolerate and feel badly for me to an extent. They see I have an active mind, one invariably dragged by a ball and chain, like my uncle's body, which, like an orca when it expires, is classified as a biological hazard, but I have no intimates, nor intimacy, in my marginalized indigence, thus at my core more caustic than my aunt. My niece's MS is a blow to my sister's self-absorption, and honestly, I don't really care, having lived my own rivers of death, but this is what eighty year olds ahead of me do, even if they are progenitors. They wag like maids.

Though I cannot for the life of me do it tomorrow, showing up at a Toomey campaign hub at the last minute to make scripted calls, this will also leave an indelible imprint of commiseration, unless I take 48 hours to fight with dressing as I used to, before the Quickie shorted out, but even then, desolation radiating off one's flesh like a depth charge blowing the bodies of fish to the surface doesn't exactly forge new paths in the garden. Black Mirror seems to be something of interest which escaped notice, but it will have to wait in an interior queue of a black lung goop, assuming I have an opportunity to get to it, even if it is a primarily ambulatory oxymoron.  As a disabled woman in the 21st century, let alone the previous one, I shouldn't be able to comprehend the destitution of John Brown's life.

Romans and Celts

"The North, I mean the living North, was suddenly all transcendental. It went behind the human law, it went behind the apparent failure, and recognized eternal justice and glory." -- Henry David Thoreau, cited in Weird John Brown: Divine Violence and The Limits of Ethics

The second generation kindle which my broken urinal splashed has fully recovered, though the controller was not amused with me. How many of these things has Amazon manufactured? Thousands? I understand that the micro-bead ink is made in Israel. I am rather attached to the one the retailer shipped me originally. I have a relationship with this kindle, curse it ferociously but derive more comfort from it than my marginally younger Paperwhite, though I know the 2Gk has to be exchanged, deregistered, soon. I am sad, because the device has it's own character, and do not wish to deactivate it, Russian trolls notwithstanding.

The above paragraph serves as a rationale as to why I'm solidly behind Toomey, despite the sense, intuitively derived, that his staff may believe I need a nose ring and some manners; who bothers when the mare is barren? In point of fact, if Toomey's circle saw how I live, bipartisanship would turn a leaf or two, and that circle would coax me to die as I had lived, in medical model institution, siding with the intellectually limited minorities who manage the building (but not themselves, blacks seem to repeatedly confirm they behave like Chinese villagers with petty vendettas, and I am getting out, one way or another, fall on my sword, if I must). If I know what I know, that obscene fortresses like Inglis House are reliable portfolios, and I applaud Toomey's business acumen as a necessary aggression, then why don't I fold in my hand?

Because I know what it's like to have money, and a beautiful 3 acre home, une poppa who taught me the value of work and self reliance, and I did all of this before progressives ass-kissed federal mandates like the ADA, which, as statues, are simply useless repetitions. I may baffle the left, may confuse the Christian right wing, and other libertarians may not trust my authoritarian streak, granted, but every liberal biased negative ad against Toomey makes him a proper capitalist in my eyes, willing to bury the hatchet over such unspoken skeletons. The Celt and the Roman married the same faith, but despise each other. Keep it under your hat. 

It is to my misfortune I did not push to be a flunky to get what I wanted, but if he keeps his seat, the mare ninnies another day.

Poster Child Left

I am counting on your support.-- every political email transmission in the country

Some of the international members of the disabled community have found my accounts through social media and attempted to offer support, but let me explain something: No matter how many documentaries on public television Hockenberry appears in, what is rarely discussed is the incalculable damage the disabled community does to itself. I cannot access legal assistance for my trauma in part because that very assistance is tied to Liberty Resources. Thomas Earle, the legally blind variation of the sissy caricature created by the studio system, had not applied to be the center's director when I was the pawn eliminated in the Queen's opening, but he was shocked when I met with him about it, and did he act in any capacity to help me heal from what was the duress of a criminally toxic social shaming? No. No one associated with independent living in Philadelphia has lifted a finger for me, and this is what prominent figures like Hockenberry never touch. The mechanics of his sexual performance? Those can be discussed, under the lid of the magic pill debate. He uses injections; this is common knowledge in the culture, and this is what the Limda Dezenski of 18 years ago would assert: I was asking questions, so she wasn't trying to hurt me by going off on her orgasms in her marital bed. She was trying to help me assert myself. I have already discussed this, but haven't really conveyed the humiliation I suffered under her subordinates. Louis DiNapoli. There is a name. He was an observer, and saw that Linda was betraying me that day at the picnic. Dozens of people watched Linda do her thing, at my expense, and Louis, who was the center's account controller, made things rather ugly, taunting me with epithets, which is why he saw the writing on the wall, and resigned. He beat the great recession. And with all that's been said, been done, where am I supposed to go? I have absolutely no resources to get myself away, for the sake of my health, none: I have to watch an incomplete transsexual unravel, dying on his criminal activities which hurt many other vulnerable players. Steve Gold? He's a patronizing Jewish pig who runs the disabled in action branch in one of the center's side offices, and stopped Presby from bleeding me dry for their dining service in 2005, which, since the building renovations in 07, have been nearly eliminated. Stick a prayer in the Temple Wall for Philadelphia Jewish lawyers. For those of you across the pond, or up north, in my favorite commonwealth, perhaps you have different systems, a reconciliation process, not here.
If I end up taking my life, it isn't because I want to play finger games with my former supervisor's vagina. Of late, I found my way back to my memories of the 24 year old who wanted to get it on, and she had no inclination for cherries. It is simply some experiences are too much to carry, after so much time. I need to vacate my landlord that badly, over the realization that true desegregation is impossible for certain classes, and cruelty from within is worse than any gamesmanship from celebrity moguls. It isn't that I don't appreciate your outreach, but if you really want to help me, I need representation, one skilled enough to get me admissions of liability, as well as a new place to live. Fixed doesn't shrink away from the debate, but it also doesn't go far enough. It is too difficult to accept that a life long sterile environment in senior living is the best I can do, the brunt of pecking order mockery.

If I am going to groom to go trolling for Pat Toomey this week, I have to make it an early morning, and now believe it was the Australian disabled man who blocked me. I warned him. He made me a job offer in message, probably felt badly about it, or his proposal didn't go through.

Model Metastasis

As I come online, look at The Freeman on American mental attitudes, consider Petula Dvorak's district byline a catastrophe, I may be in error about what my American viewers understand about the federal entitlement system, how pervasive it is, and how corrupt, whatever someone like Witter sustained. Unlike Dvorak's profile of hard bitten determination of a wronged beneficiary, most recipients getting SSDI, or SSI cheat. I am one exception, took my hits, and now I'm the bitch who needs to get piked by minorities who treat me like a rabid animal. I was going to write a lengthy post about this, and perhaps I still will, about classification, and gaming the system, all stemming from the fact Marie pissed me off. She doesn't know it and didn't mean it, but her "handy man" is a buzzard on SSI who cheats under the table, cleaning for cash. His sister is an aide on the system, and now, I want nothing to do with either. Your FICA taxes fund this shit hole of fraud, and looking the other way. It is doomed, and we're dooming ourselves with it, this welfare state, beneath the surface. It speaks to why I embrace Toomey, despite his disconnect, despite that his staff, in my limited contact with them, probably envision me much like Witter's service providers before she found an attorney willing to listen.
Billy Varenas is my favorite cousin, and in fact, is probably my one family member I like most, but his mother's long kiss of death to cancer, and his uncle's long kiss of death to infections and developmental ailments represent an astronomical burden, as does my stepmother. They take from aging people like me who still cling to restoring gainful activity, and it points to why I take such a dismal view of the human animal, of the mental health consumer model, in particular, and the utter fucking travesty at the bottom, the entitlement dependency so entrenched any rollback will result in cataclysms which would make the 08 crisis look like a mild market correction. I too made my living off this. Some of you know that. Grants to try to curtail the welfare burden of the mentally ill we now incentivize to cripple themselves as much as I defy the limits people want to impose on my quadriplegia, and I'm still fucking full of myself to think I can revolt, roll out of section 202 housing, and survive it?
I sent Moss a despondent contact submittal, forced to miss my appointment this afternoon. The sixteen year old post surgical patient I was in their beds, missing out on normal teenage high school preoccupations, that poor girl never got very far. I have no idea why I'm bothering. I should just throw my fucking keys in the office and get an accessible bus ride out of state, find a sewer and wedge my ass in it.

Taking Aim at Corporate

Let me know if this is confusing; having transmitted it, with scant resources, my days are numbered, even as I wake stiff with cramps, crumbling like a chicken wing, I piss a quart of water and make myself rise, with little idea how I am enduring, at all:

Presbyterian Homes
Corporate Office

My name is Joanne Marinelli. I have been a section 811 202 tenant of Riverside since August 1994 as a transfer from Diamond Park, where I became an assault victim in 1993.

Since that transfer, I have been an exceedingly unhappy ADA client who was banned from your dining service in 2005 and still forced to pay for it under building manager Debra Schwab. I sought and received legal representation and was victorious over Presby's blatant institutional cruelty.

Up through 2006, let me cut through the chase, I was placed under psychological duress by a number of minority attendants while trying to be a compliant tenant. I was swindled by a Jehovah's Witness contracted out by Unlimited Staffing, then molested by another female from the same staffing service, again, under Presby's auspices.

You have allowed Trudy Richardson to aggressively intimidate me with assessment teams since 2007, one team under your own contract, and twice since then by Health and Human Services staffers who charged me at my bedside saying that they had been to Inglis House, what's wrong with it?

Let me put this in terms you hypocritical mother fuckers understand: Presby is in part liable for the trauma I experienced in Diamond Park in 1993. I let the corporation off as opposed to litigating it and doing what was best for my health. Not anymore. You can tell the Presbyterian attorneys who sit on your board that I intend to file a hate crimes complaint specifically against Riverside's owner, and the corporation's unwillingness to take any responsibility for the lack of security at the Diamond Units.

If you continue to allow Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne to play mind games with me until I manage to retain legal counsel, you have two options: have me placed under arrest, or begin eviction proceedings against me. I was within my legal rights to sue Presby in 1993 for the home invasion I survived. I didn't pursue the matter because I let Presby's then employee Terri Way talk me out of it, took her advice and came to Riverside. It is an inhumane paradigm for a young and intelligent disabled woman who only and ever wanted a career. I shall not rest until you take responsibility for your acts of bad faith, or I see you at trial. For the record, Senator Pat Toomey's staff has my federal letter of complaint on file.

Imminent Belgium

"Would you mind shining your light on someone else today?" Mark Johnson, a liberal writer I managed to infuriate with no one else's help

I went to bed early this morning and couldn't sleep for the agony in my jaw, not so simple now to find a dental hospital that could treat me; it is not simply a question of draining Pennsylvania's Medicaid allocation. I know what it is like sitting in that dental chair for hours on end being tortured with root canal. I now have gum disease, and I'm suffering from indoor allergens and other small secrets relative to quadriplegia, and believe I'm functionally dying, like my Aunt Marie, dragging herself along with less adaptive ability, as time goes by. 

Morally, I don't know what to do. Kill myself now, wait for the bloody stroke, or tell the nigger bitches in the office that they've won, and consign my fate to Inglis House after a life with so little joy to it. Sex was never much, not like it was for Linda and her telescopic exuberance. And I did not want to fuck her, despite my stupidly unwise outburst from which it took me so long to recover. What made me angry was my dialectical rivalry with the spastic bitch. She could have great sex between her two husbands, while my clitoris hangs out like stewing meat for an Italian casserole, with absolutely no memories of that good fuck, except for anal games with my discarded and no less turbulently deceased spic ex of a pig. I do not enjoy anal penetration, don't want to suck tit, and there it lies. My only memories are rift with friction of never fitting with the right man, a good man, or lesbians in a variety pack coming at me not because I was signaling them, but because they thought my emotional vulnerability made me a good butch. And they were lucky that I was too impaired to kill them. That is what would have happened had it gone beyond hitting on me in the wrong situation, or in environments out of my element, and now it's too late. Stresses beyond my control are killing me, enfeebling me beyond being a good advocate for righteousness, or to climb onboard Toomey's train, or even writing one decent scholarly work. Where am I going to get the energy?

I'm barely eating two meals a day, struggling not to be haunted by Frank's infantile gluttony. I don't want to be haunted by it, my remorse, contempt, and the fact I hated him but took pleasure in being a couple, but what else is there, except the olive tinge to his face? I knew my mother was dying, and so did my sister, but I suspect neither of us ever resolved losing our mother. It has been 11 years, and we can mark the same parallel with Frank. I knew he didn't have long, and wonder if he died to spite me. I can't know, especially as I interjected to stay in his life, as opposed to reconciling anything

When the time came, I thought, in the throes of death, I'd scream for Jerry, somewhat parenthetically, or go back further, to Raymond, whose emotional armor I was able to pierce, sibilant, manipulative teenager that I was, but no. There is a place where Joanne and all her longing is simply unraveling, coming apart, without bonds to hold her to the ground, constant tension from my jaw, my temple, strange declensions in my left shin, sturdy enough to linger on in torpor, to lose my time and place. Then I get mad, but it may not be enough, and my Roman father who despised my survival in the world, he may outlive me. The one twist in the endless stream of police procedurals from the European left: in "A Death in Flanders" the actor playing the retired inspector keels over dead on the train, staring at the woman passenger across from him as intently as the French predator he collared, an effective send up. But we're not all that lucky, with our broken, battered hearts. Those of us without looks, figures, or enough shallow ruthlessness.

No Automated Mail Today

I am supposing I received my answer from Toomey's team in the form of a non-answer, despite the fact I cleanly let a little hair down. I know they are busy and not worried about an angry, powerless woman, and her blog account. Even if federal law enforcement wants to prick up its ears on my behalf, I'm old, hygiene challenged, and the parent rental company in which I'm trapped has every rational conviction to boot me, but that is my objection: terrorizing and humiliating me since the system of structures and supports collapsed over my head doesn't solve anything, despite so called HUD protections. I do not have much quality time left, and need to stop shrinking like a violet. Just not sure how to get there, aside from telling a gay politician to fuck off, between a vacuum of nothing and nothing. I do agree with many of Pat's convictions, not all, certainly. I have to run.

Prima Facie Periodontitis

I cannot even afford to go to the drug store to get self treatment for tooth decay, sent Toomey's people the most frank email I've ever addressed to a politician. Should I be worried that I'm annoyed? I could give you names but shall not. On the off chance any of them have read this account and figure I'm too hot, well, I've been paying paying that price, but blame liberalism, regardless of conservative hypocrisy, which I've never denied. I know a tad about Toomey's positions, and I don't care. That is not why I want in, calculating what buttons I need push. Thus far it's ambiguous, but between Dennis O'Brien, and gadfly Brian Sims, whose name I just fucking forgot, my cynicism about city council, and playing soccer with Toomey's offices, representative politics and ideology seem a bit of a crock. Yes, these are legislators, not necessarily victims rights advocates, and I'm a sow with little golden quality time ahead, a hypocrite too, because I've refrained from insulting Sims outright. He's just a cog in the wheel, but he is, nonetheless, a faggot attorney with a rock solid base-- not that I have a particular reason to be antagonistic, but I asked a man for help leaving an uneducated, nearly imbecile constituency on which he depends, and then got postcards from The Watermark about attendant care. Fuck Sims, putting it mildly-- not that Toomey cares either, but if my motives to get behind him is to strike back, let's see what happens, if I am not on the verge of dubious medical outcomes.